


(like) home

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobia, Homophobic Slurs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity, hazelnut coffee, or about as close to fluff as these guys are going to get, pining jack rollins, trash party adjacent really, unrequited love/lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 02:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4417772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a universe in which Rollins could have Rumlow. It's a pity that it's not this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(like) home

There's hazelnut coffee brewing in the kitchen, the smell slowly wafting its way through the small safehouse and into the bedroom. His life as of late, it seems, has shifted resolutely into taking place almost entirely in safehouses -- he hasn't felt the comfort of his bed, his own soft and moderately expensive sheets, in months. There's probably a thick layer of dust over everything in his apartment, save the couch. It's just about the only place he's had time to flop down on when he manages to make it back there -- and even then, it's only a few hours until he inevitably gets another emergency call. 

Jack doesn't mind it, not really. He likes his job, likes his team. But sometimes he finds himself yearning for a little chunk of _home_ , even though he's never really had a place to call that. 

Home has never been a chunk of land for him. As a military brat, he'd been picked up and relocated too many times to count as a child -- spun around with his eyes closed every few minutes before his legs got a chance to settle on solid ground. He'd never had a chance to grow roots into the soil of a place like some of the guys on his team had, which was a blessing as much as it was a curse. It meant he'd latched onto other constants instead of a city or a house -- and on occasion, he'd latched onto people. 

It hadn't been bad when he was younger. Sure, he'd gotten stuck in some pretty shitty relationships if only for his need to have someone to steadily orbit around, but he'd always gotten out of those with the same number of limbs he'd gone into them with -- it'd been easy to just walk away once he was done. He's always counted those small victories as a win in the grand scheme of things: no one's ever taken anything important from him -- no one until recently, anyway.

A quiet snore sounds to his side, the only indication that he's not currently in this alone. Well -- in house, anyway. He's in this particular brand of emotional shitfest alone, that's for sure. 

The man snoring beside him while Jack tries, and fails, to read a worn-thin paperback and not think about anything else, is none other than his commander, Brock Rumlow. It's probably fair to say that somewhere along the way, Jack messed up. His priorities as they should have been fell sideways and somehow, somewhere, he decided to drop everything for this complete wreck of a man currently snoozing beside him. 

It's not to say that Rumlow is not good at his job. He is -- he's one of the best commanders SHIELD or HYDRA's got -- but he's also simultaneously an absolute human disaster. He's made up almost entirely of an inferiority complex a mile deep that he managed to twist into a combustion engine when he was younger. He's got enough fuel in his fire of bravado to keep running for decades at his own expense, burning away on the inside, simply to prove himself wrong. 

He's a perfect shot, fantastic at espionage and smart as hell. He's frustratingly good at manipulation and even better at gas-lighting -- and despite and because of all of that he's one of the best commanders that Rollins has ever had.

He's also probably the worst thing that has ever happened to Jack Rollins.

Before Brock, Jack was steady. He was a beat up old truck, running on just about anything combustible and without anything slowing him down in his stead trek onward. But Brock had thrown cogs in all his gears the day they met -- simply by _existing_. And for that, Jack thinks of himself as weak. If he were a better man, he'd've been able to resist, to tell Rumlow _no_ on occasion, to avert his eyes from that prideful smile and that perfect body.

He can hear the coffee pot chugging along with effort, the nutty and warm aroma of hazelnut seeping into all of his senses. It smells like _home_ which is just nauseating to the pit of his stomach. He'd never even _had_ hazelnut coffee until he'd met Brock, who drinks the stuff with enough cream and sugar to call it a liquid candy bar. And of course, Jack had gotten used to it (sans sugar, anyway) in a record amount of time. Because he was totally and completely gone for Brock.

It hadn't always been awful. It had been manageable at first.

They'd given Brock to Jack pretty fresh out of his training. Rumlow'd been pegged as command material and had been set on his way, but was just as much of a mess then as he is now. He needed someone to point and to push and to manhandle him in the right direction. Someone to take his potential and use it properly before he burned himself out.

And Jack's not dumb enough to think HYDRA hired him for any other purpose than that. Sure, he wasn't hired to be a steady presence for Rumlow specifically, but he had been just that for many people before Brock. Jack is solid. He's resolute. And he's crushingly loyal -- all qualities that HYDRA appreciates instilling in all of their people.

So, when he'd been given the bundle of potential and disaster that Rumlow had been, Jack had thought of it like any other job, like Rumlow was average. God -- how wrong he'd been. It wasn't like he noticed it happening, noticed himself becoming trapped in Rumlow's orbit permanently -- no, it couldn't have been so simple. The realization was more a sudden jarring thing -- painful in its intensity. 

There wasn't even any ceremony about it, no gunfire or explosions or near-death experiences involved. They'd been relaxing after a training mission somewhere in the hot and muggy south. Jack'd been miserable, and Brock'd been right at home in that heat. Happy as a clam or a goddamn 'gator with the heat. And Jack just _looked_ at him a little too hard, watched Rumlow sipping casually on a warm cup of his sugared-to-shit coffee and it hit him right in the gut, knocked the breath straight out of him. This man, this _asshole,_ was more than just his commander. There was a surge of emotion, a warmth wriggling between his ribs, that had bile rising in the back of his throat, had his gut twisting and heating up. 

Warmth. Desire. _Affection_.

Disgust, at himself.

He remembers thinking, for a little while at least, that it'd just been lust. Pure and simple. But he knew, even then, that he'd been deluding himself. It had always been more than that, even from when he'd first laid eyes on Brock. Attraction, admiration, and a little bit of jealousy. He'd put his life on the line for Brock too many times to count by that point, had learned to work seamlessly with him, both leaning on each other for support and pushing each other harder to become better. Rumlow had rather seamlessly inserted himself into Jack's life, his _priorities_ , somehow all without Jack even noticing. 

And so, Jack's orbit shifted over the course of months. Which is why he's here now,  simply a dormant satellite stuck in a continuous cycle of _Brock, Brock, Brock,_ unable to fight against the gravity of it all.

But Rumlow, Brock fuckingRumlow, isn't about that. He isn't about _any_ of that.

The man exists on a strange confluence of self-loathing and unadulterated egomania. There is, obviously, very little room in Brock's head for anyone else.

And that's fine. Brock knows how to be a good team-lead, a good commander. He's thrown himself in the line of fire for Jack just about as many times as it's been reversed, so it's not like he exists purely in a bubble of himself -- he just, as far as Jack's figured it, unable to process anything remotely close to empathy. It's part of what makes him a good commander.

It's also what makes him an absolute terrible choice for a partner. 

The coffee pot beeps in completion and Brock shifts next to Jack. He murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep and noses closer to the warmth of Jack's ribs, slinging an arm around Rollins' midsection -- cozying up for a good long while, clearly.

It's gut-wrenching how at home Jack feels, nestled up against Brock's warmth, soaking up the nutty smell of hazelnut. Before Brock, Jack'd always found the stuff too sweet -- now, it just reminds him of his commander. Of _home_.

Silently, he closes the book and rests it on his lap, balancing it on one sturdy thigh. He doesn't have to try too hard to not wake up Rumlow; the man sleeps like the dead when he knows someone's there, keeping watch. It's about the sweetest thing Brock has ever done for Jack: trust him enough to sleep next or near him. And, of course, Brock doesn't even know how much it means, the sheer significance of that trust to his second-in-command.

It takes very little effort to tilt his head down so he's got a good view of Rumlow, face relaxed into sleep. Thing is, he _should_ feel guilty about doing this, should feel queer **,** should feel a lot of different things -- but he stopped caring about that a long time ago. He'd gotten over it, past it, after about the twentieth time he worked himself into knots over watching his commander sleep. There was little point in self-loathing or guilt if he had no intention of stopping, which was exactly the case. He'd never been good at depriving himself something he enjoyed -- be it cigarettes, alcohol, or an unhealthy relationship.

A one-sided, unhealthy relationship.

Like everyone and everything else, including apex predators, Brock looks more relaxed and peaceful in unconsciousness than when he's awake. The hard lines of his face soften into something resembling endearing, and Jack cannot physically restrain himself from brushing some of the strands of hair from Brock's forehead.

As much as Brock seems to love the heat, he's not immune to the humidity dripping from the air. There's a thin layer of sweat over his skin, making it glisten and glow in the faint light of the room. Jack's fingers slide easily over the olive expanse of Brock's brow without resistance; there's pleasure at the easy slide of it. The moisture clings to the strands of his hair, leaving them even darker than they are, even with the gel Rumlow put in it this morning. Brock's glowing, even in his sleep, with the kind of aura he exudes after a workout in the gym or a sparring match with Jack.

It doesn't take much to imagine their lives unfolding differently, yet converging into something similar to this, right here.

It's a guilty, heady thought, that one. And it's about the most sinful, reprehensible fantasy Jack's ever had.

He imagines them somewhere more permanent. Somewhere without SHIELD or HYDRA breathing down their necks -- maybe they'd both be accountants, mechanics, or baristas -- it doesn't matter in the end. In some parallel universe, Jack had never enlisted and Brock had never been recruited, and somehow maybe they'd find each other anyway. It's an easy thought process, as he lets his fingers trace the angles of Brock's face, wiping some of the shine from his skin. Maybe, somewhere out there, he _has_ this in full simplicity, without worry or care.

Maybe, just maybe, in some potential universe, Brock has the capacity to feel the same way.

Brock's eyelids flutter -- either in dream, or rising consciousness -- and Jack freezes, palm cupped against Brock's stubbled cheek. Suddenly, the space between their flesh is all Jack can focus on, can feel. Everything has narrowed down spectacularly to that one single scalding point of contact. Jack's flesh feels like it could burn off his skin, like the hairs from Brock's stubble are slicing open his palm. It feels like he can feel each individual point of contact, overwhelming and burning in its intensity. Gradually, the feeling spreads, but does not lessen. His palm still feels like it's burning where he's touching Brock's face, but the warmth slinks into his chest, his face, his gut. His stomach jumps into his throat, mouth tasting like nothing but acid and the scent memory of the hazelnut coffee that's hanging heavy in the air. 

Brock shifts and presses his face into Jack's palm, his lips turned upward into a memory of a smile. His breath, over Jack's hand. A mumble. Intimate.

It makes Jack sick to the pit of his stomach.

There is a world in which he has this. There is a universe in which he will put his book down on the floor and slide himself into bed, to curl around Brock with both arms and bury his face in that sweat-slick neck. He will breathe in the smell of him and the smell of the cooling coffee in the air, where they will both drift off, warm and content and _at home_. 

There is also a universe in which it would be so easy to lean down and press his lips to Brock’s, to wake the other man with gentle kisses that turn hotter after minutes pass. He can imagine the way that Brock would slowly return to consciousness with a sleepy smirk and a content noise low in his throat, how hands would shift and press and grip. Jack could push him down into the sheets, take him into his mouth until Brock’s body was arching off the bed, until he was panting and whining and crying out Jack’s name. Later, sated and sweaty and tired, they could sip lukewarm hazelnut coffee and laze in bed with the windows open, evening breeze drifting over their cooling skin. 

But the universe in which he currently lives does not allow for any of that. 

It allows for rare fumblings in darkened locker rooms or grimey alleys or the back of a jet after a rough mission. It allows for quick-and-perfunctory handjobs, for pressing foreheads against walls or backs or necks because there is no licking into each other’s mouths or breathing in each other’s air. Brock’s too skittish, too hyper-aware of himself to let it be anything other than adrenaline-fueled encounters that Jack can barely sort out before they’re finished. He’s never once felt like he’s had stable footing for one of their little fumbles, and he knows that’s purposeful on Brock’s part. He’s always too dizzy, too unaware, so that Brock can keep the power over him, keep ahold of his own fragile masculinity, just in case Jack would call him out on it. Why Brock thinks Jack _gives_ a shit as long as he’s getting off, Jack has no idea, but he does. It’s all fine, as long as Brock doesn’t notice the way Jack has to keep himself from leaning in for a kiss, how he has to physically restrain himself with running a hand down Brock’s sweaty back when they’re done. 

At least that way, Brock can keep his delicate ego and Jack can keep his dignity.

This is the only universe he gets. 

Brock stirs again, pressing unconsciously against the warmth of Jack’s hand. Rumlow always has something to say about Jack’s hands or his feet or his legs -- always throwing shade about just how _fucking huge_ Jack is. It’s fair, he supposes, because he’s always calling Brock a shrimp -- but in reality, Jack doesn’t mind so much. He likes the way his hands fit around Brock’s wrists, the way his fingers look, curled around Brock’s hips. Rumlow isn’t _actually_ small -- he’s well muscled and fit and built like a goddamn tank. But there’s no doubt that Jack stands taller than Brock, that his hands are bigger, and that Brock’s goddamn insecure about it, which makes the difference miles wider than it actually is. 

So, instead of tempting fate, of seeing just how annoyed and flustered Brock gets when he wakes up to Jack pulling some _faggot shit_ with him while he was sleeping, Jack calls it quits. He pulls his hand back and uses it to slap Brock’s face, hard enough to make a satisfying sound. Then, to top it all off, he digs his fingers into Brock’s shoulder, gets a good grip, and just _shakes_.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” Brock’s probably slept enough -- he’s gotten a good couple hours of sleep and given that he’d been starting to stir he’s probably reaching his limit anyway.

He gives him another shake, just to prove how adamant he is about the whole thing, though he doesn’t call attention to the fact that Brock’s got an arm slung over Jack’s mid-section. Nor does he comment that when Brock started to wake, he only tightened his arm on reflex, fingers clenching in the fabric of Jack’s shirt. Rumlow just pushes himself up, positions himself against the headboard next to Jack, and rubs at his eyes while he regains consciousness. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Brock clearly hovering on the edge of some sleep-weary homophobic blustering while Jack just crosses his fingers and hopes against that at all costs.

Brock’s still blurry-eyed and groggy when Jack figures he might as well break the silence. “There’s coffee in the kitchen. Probably still kinda warm.” 

Given that he put the coffee on about an hour ago and then proceeded to climb into bed to sit next to a sleeping Brock, it’s probably cold at this point. Maybe even a little burnt. But there was no way in hell Jack was missing the opportunity to just _sit_ with Brock, to enjoy the silence and the peace of it, so he isn’t even sorry about the fact that it’s cold. He can only hope that Brock won’t mention that the coffee was clearly done ages ago, and that Jack didn’t wake him up _immediately_ for his caffeine fix. Instead, Jack just sat there like a fag and watched Brock sleep.

But, for once luck is on Jack’s side. Brock just stretches, yawns, and mumbles something about how he _needed that sleep, goddamn_. He reaches over, easy and smooth, and thumps Jack on the pecs a couple times as he rolls himself out of bed and pads into the kitchen. Sleep rumpled and lethargic is a good look on Brock, even if Jack’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Brock to inevitably snap and ruin the peace. 

Rumlow’s leaning on the kitchen counter by the time Jack extricates himself from the bed and makes his way into the kitchen to pour himself some coffee. It’s cold, just as he predicted, and the warm, nutty flavor definitely has a strong undertone of _burnt_. By the time the liquid hits his tongue, his little fantasy universe has all but faded from his head and he can continue with the rest of his day unhindered by romantic delusions of parallel universes. It doesn't matter, really, because despite the universe, Brock Rumlow is always his home. It's an inescapable reality of his life, now -- it all just dissolves into static background noise.

Rumlow just cracks his neck when Jack settles in next to him and makes a content noise into his cup. It’s nice -- quiet and peaceful. Surprisingly, Brock lets the silence lay undisturbed and continues to drink his coffee in slow and even sips and doesn’t mention the taste.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be fluff -- then it turned out a little sad. whoops.
> 
> i might make another chapter to this from rumlow's perspective.
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com)~


End file.
